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[Joey Flash]

Lucia Malignaggi was born December 21st, 2018 at two o’clock in the morning in Room 5 of New York Presbyterian Lower-Manhattan; weighing 7.5lbs to loving parents Joseph and Alessandra Malignaggi. The Christening ceremony was performed under heavy media scrutiny and high level security presence alongside an amber terror alert at St. Patrick’s Cathedral - the site of the Malignaggi/Allegri tragedy of three years ago. Suspected Sicilian Cosa Nostra capo di tutt capii Bernardo and wife Francesca Allegri alongside several high level associates were pictured entering the building alongside luminaries from the sports world including current professional wrestling World Champion Daniel Torrence, former United States and Trios champion John Mullins and former Television, Trios and Tag Team champion Howard Black.

More to follow…

The Box Tree

Seven months had passed and the Malignaggi’s were finally on their first date night in over a year. Following Joseph’s official retirement from the ring following his epic slugfest with Corey Black at the last XIII the life for the power couple had been a constantly cascading shroud of serenity and happiness. Alessandra had officially succeeded Bernardo as head of the Allegri family and international promotional and philanthropic conglomerate; though her father remained the figurehead for all media and social appearances - allowing Alessandra to grow the business behind the scenes. As for Joseph? He had surprised his old trainer Enzo Casiraghi with an entire gym refurbishment (a grinning, tearful Enzo told Joey that he ‘didn’t want all this new crap’ in his gym - but would tell anyone who would listen about how the prodigal son ‘did good, that son of a bitch’) before embarking on a public speaking tour discussing the vices of fame and the temptations that follow. Joey had finally found the dragon before the birth of his daughter and made it his duty to get clean. He cornered the flame breathing life constricting wyrm and performed a hard and fast Saint George’s exorcism. He collected his six month clean chip from NA last month.

Life was good as Joseph approached the table at The Box Tree, a small exclusive French Manhattan corner restaurant that served the best damn steak in town. The pug faced waiter who was attending the table pulled Joey’s chair out and motioned for him to sit.

Waiter: Here you go sir.

The waiter glanced across the table and his eyes lingered on the woman sitting opposite this guest. A form fitting red dress hugged her curves and he felt his gaze dart to her cleavage before adjusting to her face, a glowing olive skinned complexion framed by crimped black hair and a rouge lined smile that made his manhood stiffen. She bit her bottom lip as she met his gaze and lightly grasped his forearm with her hand.

Alessandra: Can I get a bottle of your finest Merlot please dear?

Waiter: O-of course.

He flushed and just stood in silence for a moment before remembering his second guest. The man opposite was tall, with an expensive looking charcoal suit combination and a Hublot watch that could have blinded a lesser man with all the radiant crystals embedded in the face.

Waiter: ...and for sir?

Joey didn’t hesitate.

Joey: Water.

He pulled his coarse wild black mane upward into a man-bun. He looked every bit the hipster twat.

Waiter: Of course.

As pug face wandered off to return with their drinks, the Malignaggi’s eyes met. Alessandra beckoned him to lean toward her, an inviting finger almost pulling him in.

Alessandra: Joseph.

She whispered in his ear.

Alessandra: I want to garotte that man.

Joey burst out in laughter. As much chances, as much stays the same. Alessandra didn’t seem to find his mirth amusing.

Alessandra: Was that funny?

Joey: God I love you.

Alessandra: I love you too. What brought that on? Does my bloodlust toward pug faced ugly leches light your fire Joseph?

Joey: Yes.

They share a smile.

Alessandra: Good.

Joey: Fuck I’ve missed this. Just me and you. It feels like it’s been forever. I don’t get to ever see Alessandra. I only get Mom.

She smiled and snaked the sole of her Louboutin up his leg to lightly press on his crotch.

Alessandra: Oh really? Would you like Alessandra right now?

She felt him twitch and giggled as pug face returned with the wine and water. After an uncomfortably long time he spent lollygagging around and fumbling with the drinks Alessandra dismissed him with a curt ‘leave’ - much to his sadness, before pouring the rest herself.

Joey: Yes.

Alessandra retracted her foot and leant forward.

Alessandra: First though...sorry, I don’t mean to be a tease darling. I want to discuss what you are going to do with your career moving forward. See, I’ve been thinking - you’ve been essentially just messing around with flights of fancy and not really committing to anything of late and as much as I appreciate you being a house husband and stay-at-home father I feel your time could be better used putting your skills and talents to use so I’ve devised a series of potential career paths that you might be able to embark on. All perfectly legitimate of course, firstly-

Joey: Hold on, hold on. Let me stop you there. So uhh, about that…

Alessandra: Oh! Lovely. You have a list too. Do go on! ..and here’s me thinking you're just spending your days playing video games and mindlessly browsing Reddit. You never cease to surprise.

Joey: I re-entered the USADA testing pool.

Alessandra: I wonder what...

It took a moment to register.

Alessandra: ...what?!

Joey knew he was probably going to be in trouble for this. Usually he’d tell people it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Usually people aren’t married to a homicidal psychopath.

Joey: So I got a phone call from Corey Black….

Alessandra: I hope he was asking how Lucia is doing and when he can visit. He can’t, by the way. His beard is absolutely hideous and would terrify her.

Joey: He wasn’t. I uhhh. I got offered a match.

Alessandra: Joseph, please-

Joey: I know. It’s just one. I promise.

Alessandra sighed and regarded her husband, his icy blue eyes were alive, he was smiling just thinking about this and his hands were clenched together in excitement.

Joey: This is a body I want.

Alessandra: Not ‘just a match’ Joseph?

He dropped the smile and poured himself a glass of wine. Taking a sip and relaxing back in the chair.

Joey: Not with this one.

Alessandra: Who?

Joey: Johnny Rabid. Can I have this? Please?

Alessandra: You don’t ever have to beg me my king.

She had missed this. Joseph was not a career man. He was not a motivational speaker. He was a warrior. He was a wrestler. He was a stone cold fucking killer. She felt her womanhood flutter.

Alessandra: Just promise me one thing…

She motioned for him to come close again before whispering in his ear.

Alessandra: ...bring me his head.

JOHN RABID LOST TO A TRANNY.

Later on in the night - sometime after the aperitif and starter (a delicious selection of cheeses and pate and highland lamb in a red wine sauce respectively).

Joey: So, heading into this match we need to clarify a few things. You didn’t get attacked by Jared did you...and the whole feud between us didn’t actually happen did it really?

Alessandra: Correct. Jared came round for dinner just last weekend. We had a delightful Langoustine dish. He brought some sumptuous dessert wine to partner with our sorbet afterward too.

Joey: Exactly! Just going to bring you behind the curtain a little bit Al, this is called a ‘no-sell’.

Like. Uhh...do you remember when I got heinously blinded with a flashbang and urinated on by a deranged bald ex-soldier?

Alessandra: Not at all.

Joey: How about the time...and you should remember this really, when we suffered a home invasion and then you were repeatedly raped by a masked Nae-Nae’ing mongoloid?

Alessandra: What the hell? Joseph, that’s just ludicrous.

Joey: I know right? Fucking stupid. Okay. How about the time where in the biggest match of his career, with the most eyes on the ring, in a One main event of all things - Johnny Rabid got beaten by a tranny?

Alessandra: That happened.

Joey: It sure did.

Joey Flash SHOOTS HARD, BURIES Johnny Rabid

A camera, boom microphone, a black backdrop, ambient lighting and Joey Flash. The legendary wrestler garbed in his white suit with top hat to match. He gives a smile and begins slow clapping.

Joey: Let’s get started, Joey Flash vs Johnny Rabid. This is a match of two titans of the business, a match that has been long clamoured for and fans have wanted to see for years now. It seems that’s the only sort of match I have nowadays. I can deal. This match is being billed as the most consistent wrestler in the history of the business versus the most talented wrestler in the history of the business. We existed for years alongside each other with only what, one tag team match against each other? Two? Who won by the way? I’m a little foggy.

Joey smiles.

Joey: Who cares though right? That wasn’t a singles match. It didn’t count. It doesn’t matter, and I mean fuck right. I’m with you, I couldn’t give two shits about what I accomplish with random bum I’m carrying #5, what matters is what happens when you step through the ropes and face a competitor one on one. You step through those ropes and lay everything you are as a person out in front of millions watching the fight, win or lose this is your definition as a person. Sometimes you win, sometimes you get humiliated in your most important match by a tranny.

Joey smiles wider.

Joey: Oh wait, that’s just you. The reason I said yes wasn’t to make history here. I don’t want to give fans an epic clash or a magical main event. I am here to make sure you and everyone watching this match knows where you stand in the world. You are not on my level, you never have been, you never will be. I am going to grind you into dust. Corey Black wanted a main attraction, but instead got a paid assassin. I am not going to play up to the promotion of this match with petty placation. I’m coming at the very core of you as a man, if you can ever call yourself that John. I suppose you can take this as solace, a little badge of honour for your fragile pompous ego - you are getting the best I have. Not because you earned it through your skill or accomplishments...but because you deserve it for how much of a snivelling, worthless piece of shit you are.

You started your career as a coat-tail rider, a Jim Thuggin plant in the shit show that is Beach Crue. It didn’t seem like it then, but the moment you stepped through that door and hit Andre Aquarius with a superkick, right there was the moment the stable pressed its doomsday button. You tagged along trying to find a place to fit, but let’s be real here: you never belonged. Where does a weird British vampire/alien/demon/whatever the fuck you are fit with twentysomething hipsters and/or frat boys? You might as well have slid a fucking mask on and started doing The Floss for all the good you did. You constantly fought for position and leadership throughout with Jared and Wade and had to watch as they both succeeded beyond anything you could even come close to. As you watched them snatch titles and World Championships little Johnny Rabid had to sit by and stew in his hatred and watch through his green hued shades.

John Rabid is a B+ wrestler in the pantheon of WCF history. That’s how you are going to be remembered, if at all. You’ve never been anything but, I’ve certainly never thought of you as anything more than that and neither has anyone else who mattered. I’ve been co-signed by every legend who has ever stepped through the ropes in this company, you have been co-signed by Jason Cash. Wake the fuck up John. The only reason you are even in the main event at XIII is because of the name across from you on the billing. Just watch, listen - even now, over half a year since I’ve laced my boots up my name is everywhere. You can barely go a World Title promo without hearing the name ‘Joey Flash’ lauded and venerated as the gold standard of excellence. You though? Well shit, maybe you’re mentioned in low/mid card Television title matches...I wouldn’t know because I couldn’t give two shits about that jobtastic tin trinket that defines your career. This is the difference between us:

Joey Flash is synonymous with the World Championship.
John Rabid is synonymous with the Television Title.

But it’s fine, go you. Wear the ‘Tried hardest’ sticker with a drooling mongoloid grin. You are laughable, your sense of accomplishment for mediocrity is laughable. See the problem with you John is you have an overestimation of your level in this sport. You are the perfect mid-card champion, high floor/low ceiling - you will bring a solid level to the ring every week; fans and sponsors always know what they’re getting with John Rabid, a solid 3* performer who will always deliver a solid standard. You never were prime time. You’ve never been the A-Side on a card, never the name up in lights, never the face of the company. It’s just not you. You are solid, but you’re not a star and you never have been. It’s not because you’re British, it’s not because you’re an arrogant ass, it’s not because you’re a charisma void, it lives and dies like everything else in this sport with what you can do between the ropes. What you’re going to experience at XIII is the unclimbable mountain, the unassailable fortress that is the gap in ability between you and I. The reason why I’ve won every big match I’ve ever been in. War, One main events, World Title after World Title - I devour it all and ask ‘Can I have some more?’. You’re facing a man who has not lost a match straight up for over two years. The last person to legitimately pin my shoulders to the mat was Dune...in 20 fucking 15. That match was a microcosm in itself, and frankly-

Joey pauses for a moment in silent stoic thought before continuing.

Joey: I would have traded every win I got after that match for that single victory. Fuck it. So if we’re talking failure, if we’re talking loss and heartache you can be sure as shit I’ve got mine. I’m not bulletproof, there is no man in the business that is. Now though? I consider Dan a friend, you probably think that’s a weakness but it’s the total fucking opposite. When you walk through the hells together and if you’re strong enough to withstand the fury of the flames, those fires forge bonds stronger than anything you can ever manage you weak willed close minded snake.

This is a big match for you thought isn’t it? This is the one, right here. This is the one match that when you get the victory it is going to legitimise you as a competitor to everyone who has ever supported you, who has ever doubted you and most importantly to yourself. You need this match John. You have to beat Joey Flash, it’s as simple as that. Failure here for you? Then you’re done, you disappear into the ether and aren’t heard from in a meaningful match again. You beat me and you join the list of people I can count on one hand who’ve done it. You become part of professional wrestling folklore. Your biggest win is a Dune who had already checked out, that has the legitimacy of The Resurrection Man annihilating me. Let’s get this straight: I am not Dune, and I am just checking the fuck back in.

I’m too good for you, the match is too big of an occasion for you. You never even had a fucking chance. You’re starting to get that boricua pong about you Sanchez-lite. You can’t win a big, important and storied match like Showdown or War and you sure as shit weren’t winning in the main event of One, I don’t even know why I even had confidence in you then. I looked at the match and thought ‘He’s facing boring, one note, bland opponent who is also a fucking tranny - this is a layup’...REJECTED AT THE RIM BY SJW!

He dropped the ‘I used to be a woman’ bomb on you...and you lost.

What the fuck?! I can’t even...I mean Grayson went all in with the ‘dead baby’ bomb, I’ve seen the ‘murdered my girlfriend’ bomb from Jared but you, you motherfucker you lost to the ‘I have a fake cock bomb, now feel my natural child bearing hips pin you to the mat for three’ bomb. Fuck you, you shitty, pandering, low tier, worthless cunt.

Maybe after I savage you, you can go on a tag run with Jason O’Neal. Perhaps he’ll be able to resurrect some of your self respect and relevance in this company, you little footnote you. It’s okay, you can get mad if you want ya limey cunt. You can respond to this, you can refute me if you want. It’s okay. It’s what you usually do anyway. Little insecure bitch, can’t handle when someone tells the truth about your integrity and your character so try to rebuttal with half-assed bullshit that everyone only sees as weakness.

You think we watch that shit and hear a complete diffusion of the opponent and their credibility. Instead we watch that shit and hear:

John Rabid presents: *AUTISTIC SCREECHING*

You Batesian clown. Your staggering lack of self worth and confidence is what is going to be your downfall in this match, as has been the story of your entire career. It took you how long to be World Champion? Why? You were happy riding the Television Title and being stuck in your little niche because it was safe, you’d retain your status and continue adding wins and impressing. You don’t impress me one bit with that shit. Where was your passion, your drive? I was kicking down every door I could to get my name across from the World Champion, it’s all I wanted, it’s all I could fucking think about until I was playing a game of life and death for some leather and gold. That is what being the best in this sport is. It’s why people with your attitude never reach the pinnacle. You’re happy with people’s perception of you as a talent, not with success. When the opportunity came though, you thought success would follow. No jokes here, you should have annihilated Sid; for as shit as you are he is even fucking worse. That match was easy. But you psyched yourself up then psyched yourself out. Weak willed faggot, you were supposed to win that match and have a dominant title reign but you couldn’t even do that. You have a career of ‘What if’s’

‘What if Johnny Rabid beat Logan in Final Destination?’

Would we have had a legitimate match then? Would your career had a rocket strapped to it?

‘What if Johnny Rabid beat Sidney J Warwick?’

Would he have had a reign like that we haven’t seen since Dune?

Unlike everyone else, I see through to the fucking core of you. I judge you by the sum of your actions not what would have happened if you would have done what they expected of you. But you manage to somehow snake away from this shit with your legacy intact and you dare question my legitimacy and my reputation? Are you going to pander to the fanbase like you usually do? Talk about the current crop, hype yourself and try to pander to the XIII crowd with pop culture bullshit? Talk about the infinity stones and come up with some garbled bullshit comparisons?

Well bitch in that ring I am going to be your own personal Thanos. One snap of my fingers is all it will take to turn you into dust.

My World

Joey was jolted awake by the squealing mewling of a tiny voice next to the bed. A quick glance across and a drooling, intoxicated Alessandra opened one eye and gave a wave of a hand to tell Joey it was his turn tonight. It wasn’t, but it wasn’t worth waking The Kraken tonight for a five minute job. Looking down at the squawking form of Lucia Maliggnaggi he paused for a moment; he never thought he would ever be ready for this again. Three o’clock in the morning forceful interventions of a healthy sleeping pattern, dealing with puke and shit every day, a constant dependant mouth to feed, true happiness.

He collected his child body harness from the dresser drawer at the far side of the room and scooped his baby into his arms before strapping her against his chest. He looked down, she looked up; they both smiled. Joey whispered to her.

Joey: Do you want to see a magic trick?

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Joey Flash stood in his basement training room staring at the maroon leather bag that now had a hue of lament and loneliness from the covering of dust. It had been months since he had been down here. Maybe even a year at this point? He didn’t know.

Joey: So…

He spoke to himself as much as his now awake and intrigued daughter who had grasped a handful of his hair and was deciding whether it looked appetising or not.

Joey: ...I used to be a professional wrestler. I mean, not that you know anything about that - like what that is, what that means or whatever. It’s not like you even know what words are coming out of my mouth right now.

He smiled at her as she had indeed decided to shove the hair into her mouth.

Joey: I used to be pretty good too you know? No. I wasn’t pretty good, that’s a lie. I shouldn’t lie to you. I was untouchable. I was the best wrestler in the history of the business. I am twenty seven years old, and I am now a ‘used to.’ I would laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic. Your brother would have shouted at me. ‘DADDY! What are you doing, you used to be the strongest man in the whole universe! Why are you just sat at home?’ He said that once. I took a week off. A week! I never saw that kid happier than when I would come back through the curtain with another win and the belt still around my waist.

‘Daddy, you used to be the strongest man in the whole universe.’

He closed his eyes and he took a deep breath.

Joey: Remember I said I would show you a magic trick? Well, I lied. This isn’t a trick.

His breathing hollowed as a tranquil repose took his body.

Joey: I’m going to show you Lucia. I’m going to show Christian.

Blood began to run from his nose and seep from his tear ducts as he felt his mind explode with activity.

I am the strongest man in the universe.


ＴＨΞ░Ｗ♢ＲＬＤ

The leather and sand exploded in a microatomic explosion, the coarse hard sand flying in all directions in one violent instant. Silence fell across the gym as the sand motes drifted serenely downward through the silence

John Rabid, you poor son of a bitch. You think you know, but you don’t You really, really, don’t.

Joey felt his muscles begin to spasm and then release as the blood flow began again. He looked at his little girl, head lolling to one side in a sleepy trance.

Joey: Let’s put you down and get you to sleep eh girl?

Then it will be time to put this Rabid mutt down, it’s nearly time for your Old Yeller moment.



Goodbye, John.

We return to Joseph in the dark room. The lights have taken on a brighter pure illumination of our hero.

Joey: I lay my heart on the line every time I promote a match, every time I speak to the crowd, every time the bell rings. I give you everything I have, everything I am warts and all. Some people will like me, some people will hate me - that’s just the nature of the beast at the top level. At least I can be proud that the people actually hate me for me. What about you John? You play the Machiavellian villain so hard even you have probably forgotten what mask you’re supposed to be wearing today. Is it doting father? Loving husband? Killer? Snooty arrogant wrestler? You’re an expert at hiding yourself behind a visage of superiority but when actually looking down into the depths of you? You are staggeringly ignorant and lacking in wit for your eloquence.

You mask your lack of insight and decisive cutting edge with wordsmithery and erudition that makes the masses seal clap and drool over it. You take fifteen minutes to go into depth, running in circles and boring everyone to death for a point that should have taken ten seconds. What the fuck? That’s something someone who doesn’t want people to remember they lost to a tranny would do. No. We’re off that. That’s nothing to do with this match John. You hide behind so many smoke and mirrors to succeed it’s fucking embarrassing. Completely direct. That’s what effective is. Not needing a PhD just to understand and get your references: how about instead you clear the smoke and use the mirrors to be introspective with. My only concern is whether you will even be able to view your own reflection behind your giant fucking ego and shield of pretentiousness.

This is going to be your last match in the WCF. At least the last one that actually matters. You might pop back up at a XIII at some point for a shitty match against Generic Jobber A (Fine, against Stephen Singh) or some equally dull dogshit but this is your last match. Is it mine? I don’t know. My last match before this was pretty special, defeating Corey Black at XIII in his home town? How does it ever get better than that? Yet you’ve managed to drag me out of retirement for this. This is not a special match for me, this isn’t a special legacy moment. I’ve already beaten you before and now I’m going to do it again. You wanted this match to prove something, not to anyone else, but to yourself. To John Rabid. You want to prove that you can fight Joey Flash and you can win. I didn’t take this match for me, I gain absolutely nothing from beating you. My legacy is in wrought iron. I took this match to prove something to you too. That no matter how much you want it, no matter how hard you try, no matter what angle, avenue of attack or tactic you use the simple fact is this: I am better than you.

I’ve been better than you from the start and I’m still better than you now. This isn’t some over the hill veteran you are praying on to find a big name win to crow about and brag like it’s a big deal. I am not Dune, I am not Steve Orbit. I am Joey fucking Flash and I am going to take you to pieces in the ring at XIII. You think it can’t get worse, but it can John. It can, and it will. When the bell rings and you are stood across from me only then will you realise just how deep the shit is you’ve managed to wade into. You will fight with everything you have, because you need this match. You’ll come at me with all the fury and the venom you can, all your anger and vitriol will rain down upon me...and I will dodge every single drop. You cannot affect me with such weak will. You can’t even so much as make a dent. Ever since the match was agreed in principle I’ve been thinking about how I’d speak about this, how I would eulogise this match and your career. I think this will do the trick.

“Once upon a time John Rabid was a cunt. The end.”

So go ahead...the floor is yours. Do with it what you will. Give your damning indictment of my career that’s been over for the last year. We are all waiting with baited breath to sigh and groan as you regurgitate the same pandering, beige tired old shit you usually do. Give the fans one last piece of shit promo no one will remember, quote or enjoy before shitting the bed in yet another match. John Rabid: this is your life.

Give your retirement speech, say your thank yous and goodbyes. I’m not going to stand here and pretend that we’ll miss you. Now please, fuck off back into anonymity and take the tattered remains of your mediocre legacy with you.

Bodybags on deck...you’re finished.